


Catch Me I'm Falling

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anorexia, Control Issues, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mania, enjolbsessive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Besides, he's not one of those girls in health-class videos pinching the fat on her hip and looking helpless. Enjolras is not helpless. He's in control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me I'm Falling

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme prompt here: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4552495#t4552495

It's really not fair that he has to be the one to bring it up. Anyone, _anyone_ else was more qualified for the job. But silence became an unspoken rule and uneasy glances were traded and in the end, it fell to Grantaire.

Enjolras was oblivious.

\---

Things start innocently enough, as does everything else in Enjolras' meticulously planned life.

Rewind six months to a party at the bar Eponine tends on weekends that he'd been bodily dragged to, drink forced in hand. Pause. The Amis are wild; none more so than Courfeyrac, who seems to have found a mechanical bull (when did that even get here?) and is currently clinging to Bahorel's back for dear life as they ride it together, laughing and screeching. The others dance and chant around them, even introverted Combeferre, whose glasses are askew and cheeks rosy – definitely Eponine's doing. Thus far Enjolras has avoided any real level of inebriation. He sips at his beer disdainfully, sighing and glancing distractedly at his watch.

It's eight thirty on a Saturday night and he's been here for two hours already. _Two. Hours._ Two hours that could have been spent studying with Combeferre, who has obviously abandoned their plans to sneak out early and head back to the library, for the upcoming BAR exam.

There's nothing like time wasted to make Enjolras' eye twitch.

He's here, as he's obligated (by friendship or some nonsense, although occasionally he pauses and wonders when he'd signed that binding contract because he certainly doesn't remember committing himself to this kind of idiocy despite the company) and now he wants to leave. It's as simple as that. They've abandoned him in the corner anyways, they won't even notice his absence - and he doesn't feel guilty, really, just that pressing sense of anxiety ticking away in the front of his mind. It's so loud, so persistent.

That right there was another three minutes gone.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

Enjolras has always hated the bar scene.

He sets the bottle down and eases out with no one the wiser, as stealthily as possible. There's an acute ache growing between his eyes and climbing his throat and he just _really needs to get back to work, okay?_

This is an important exam, he rationalizes. It may be Courfeyrac's birthday but this is his _future_ , his dream, the only thing he'll ever want to devote himself to entirely. Surely his feelings wouldn't be too hurt. Everyone knew what he was like.

Some small part of him (that sounds annoyingly like Jehan) frowns and says that that's no excuse, and he shouldn't take advantage of his frosty aura like this, but the call of the books stacked halfway to the ceiling in his room is stronger and the poet is drowned beneath an ocean of paper and ink.

His stomach growls as he lets himself into the dark flat he shares with Combeferre, nagging that he hasn't eaten since that half a bagel Ferre practically shoved down his throat at ten this morning. He tells it to shut it's fucking face. He has _Things_ to do. People to save. Exams to ace.

He's never failed to pass with flying colors before, but with these stakes he couldn't risk it.

So he goes to his room hungry and wakes up the next morning in a state of panic, his own cramped handwriting stuck to his cheek, scrambling to find his pen in the clutter.

His stomach is growling and, in a fit of frustration, he punches his thigh and tells it to _shut up, please, I have work to do._

And if he goes the rest of the day without more than a cup of coffee, and if he feels a little thrill that he was able to do it so easily, no one is the wiser.

\---

Enjolras is on fire, not that that's anything new. He burns feverishly bright at the head of the table, though his skin is pale and there's a sickly look to him whenever he stops for breath that Grantaire doesn't like.

The others can't seriously be that oblivious. He knows Combeferre has noticed, seen the worried looks he's cast. His eyes linger distractedly on his roommate's jutting hipbone-

But no one says a word.

Nope. Never.

It always has to be him, doesn't it?

\---

It becomes his favorite coping mechanism, even an indulgence. And maybe it's a little fucked up that _not_ eating is an indulgence to him but it's relaxing to him, a steady pang, something to keep him grounded.

Enjolras is the type of person who hates to be human.

He hates emotions, hates to want things, hates to want things, hates Grantaire-

God, he fucking hates Grantaire.

It's a Friday evening and there is a drunk attempting to crawl into his lap. The shock melts into a growl and, grabbing him by the shoulders, he turns away from his laptop and shoves him bodily off of the bed. Normally Grantaire is much stronger than him, but right now he's hammered (why is he even surprised anymore) and laughing obnoxiously and he lies down on the floor where he fell, staring up at him blearily. Papers scatter. Enjolras wants to slap him.

“Come on, Apollo,” he crows, and the only real effort he makes to get up is met with a glare cold enough to burn.

“Get. Out. Grantaire,” comes from between gritted teeth, and just then Combeferre comes barging in, his glasses, letting out a groan at the sight of Grantaire on the floor. He bends down to take him beneath the arms and haul him back to his feet, apologizing profusely.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to let him in-”

“It's fine,” Enjolras says, clipped and not at all fine. But Combeferre knows better than to contest him - especially when he's _studying_ of all things, Lord, Grantaire couldn't have chosen a worse time – and with a nod he drags the curly-haired heap of Grantaire out of the room, shutting the door as quietly as he can behind him.

No, it's not fine. Now his nerves are tingling and he can't concentrate, can't think around the agitation making his skin crawl. Fucking Grantaire. He should understand boundaries by now – should know that Enjolras doesn't like to be touched, doesn't like to be interrupted. He's on a _schedule._ He has a plan, strictly structured, with deadlines and word counts to think about, books to comb through. Doesn't he understand? _Why_ doesn't anybody understand?

With a massive effort he manages to turn back to his notes, but the words mean nothing now. They twist and writhe, as restless as he is, and he tears his eyes away in a blind state of something more pervasive than fear.

This isn't going to work. He has to do- something.

Anything.

Everything is spinning out of reach. He wants to grasp it again, grip it all with iron fingers and clamp down and never let go again so he won't have to feel like this.

He grips the toilet seat with one hand, finger halfway down his throat. His eyes water. The only sound is his own choking, retching, an unsteady splatter then drip-drip drip...

The silence afterwards is beautiful.

He cleans up methodically, his heart beating slow, and washes his hands and flushes the toilet and he's back to his room, holed up for the night. The world stops turning. Nobody bothers him again.

\---

How does one approach such a sensitive topic?

Grantaire watches his Apollo from behind a bottle, through dark lashes and a screen of self-doubt several times his size. His nerves are shot and he's too sober for this shit, damn it, he should never have gotten this stupid idea into his head. Since when do gods take advice from mortals, anyways?

He won't. He's Enjolras. He isn't going to take anything _Grantaire_ says without a grain of salt.

Or a whole shaker.

In any case, the artist tries to convince himself as he takes another gulp, Enjolras is invincible. Nothing can touch him – he's seen the guy sit through five hour examinations with the swine flu, watched him take on guys with muscles like cantaloupes at rallies _and win._ He's seen him debate with the ferocity of a hunting lion, opponents wilting before him before they'd even really begun. There's no way _Apollo,_ descended from on high to torment Grantaire with his very existence day in and day out, is hurting himself.

It's beneath him. A concern of man, not angel. He would never-

But Grantaire knows him better than that.

He can't stop staring at his bony wrists, the way they peek from the loose sleeves of his jacket. It used to fit him like a second skin. (Grantaire should know)

Enjolras glances up, looks his way once – his lip curls, mildly disapproving, when he sees the bottle in his hand and he turns away again. Not before Grantaire had been struck dumb.

There's something missing from him tonight. He's tired. There are pauses when there shouldn't be. One time he loses his place, says the same memorized paragraph twice in a row, and Jehan timidly points it out. Enjolras just blinks. Nods. Apologizes, shaking his head, looking at the floor. Back to Grantaire. Back to that imaginary point in the crowd.

Tonighttonighttonight, his brain is telling him, and watching the tense lines of Enjolras' shoulders move with every breath he has to agree.

Tonight, then. It would have to be tonight.

He can't put off forever what should have been done weeks ago.

\---

He has a method and a cycle and he follows it religiously, like another one of his deadlines, except this one is every day and he might die if he doesn't follow through.

At least, that's what it feels like.

Life is so much more manageable this way. He feels only marginally better, but it's something.

He sneaks away at the party, again, but this time he beelines straight to the bathroom. He has a paper written in his head and yet, this has to come first. _Nearly midnight, gotta get it done._ That itching, clawing feeling in his stomach tells him that he shouldn't have had those crackers but Courfeyrac had all but forced them down his throat.

Deep breaths. Open wide.

That's how Grantaire finds him with his finger down his throat, on his knees, coughing up bits of half-digested snack food he hadn't even meant to eat. There's a squeak, and he shoots up to stare at the wide-eyed drunk in the doorway in a surge of panic.

And then Grantaire is slamming the door, muttering high-pitched apologies that have lost their meaning as he flees. Enjolras wipes his mouth, looking slowly back to the mess he's made of the toilet bowl, as his heart tattoos a dangerous rhythm against his chest.

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes, it seems he's never short of them.

And that paper is bubbling to the front of his mind again. He really ought to write it down, although he knows he won't forget it. It may or may not be due in two weeks and not tomorrow, but that's an easy lie to tell. They'll all believe him, if he absolutely has to make an excuse. All but Grantaire – but who takes Grantaire seriously anyways?

Besides, he's not one of those girls in health-class videos pinching the fat on her hip and looking helpless. Enjolras is _not_ helpless. He's in control.

Really.

So whatever Grantaire has gotten into his liquor-soaked brain will just have to stay there. Enjolras will be having none of it. He's not going to let his friends worry themselves sick over something so _trivial_ as the indents of his teeth on his hand and the acid he brushes from his teeth and a little bit of food.

Who _needs_ a little bit of food? Millions of people on the other side of the world, maybe, the other side of the city even - but nobody here.

Certainly not him.

\---

He's just about drunk enough to do it.

Grantaire licks the alcohol from his lips, regretting it less than he should. He'd wanted to be sober for him. He really had. Any chance that he might have had of being taken seriously is probably out the window now, his eyes red and cheeks following suit quickly.

Hell. Enjolras would probably punch him in the face before he listened to what he was saying.

He's seen him do things he's sure no one would believe. He can't believe it. Golden Apollo purging himself like some strung out, emaciated teenager with self-esteem issues. Like Eponine before she got out of that hellhole of a home, like a thousand people Grantaire has known and seen and felt sick over. Not _Enjolras._

It was Enjolras.

They didn't talk about it.

(Of course they didn't.)

But now, God damn it, he's drunk and Enjolras is railing on about socialism to some poor freshman girl and _they are going to talk about it._

As he approaches, he sees the blonde stop mid-sentence, taking a deep breath-

sees him, stick thin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut-

sees bruises under his eyes, dark and heavy, the gaunt way about him when his eyes are closed and his words are dry-

and he grabs his shoulder, and for the first time he isn't shaken off immediately.

Because Enjolras is falling, out cold, right into Grantaire's panicked arms and he doesn't open his eyes again.

\---

Everything has become a blur.

Things to do things to say things he should be keeping tabs on and why is it so hard to stay awake?

Enjolras scrubs at his eyes, furious with himself. He has to stay awake. Has things to do.

The leftover pizza in the fridge taunts him. Irrationally, he wants to snap at Combeferre for leaving it in there.

Food bothers him.

God, he's so tired. He just wants to lie down, every inch of his body aching so acutely, screaming for it, sobbing even – but he _can't_ , can't, can't. Paper to write. Rally to prepare for. Calls to make, e-mails to forward, Facebook page to update-

He has so much to do.

Tap-tap-tap on the desk with his pen, agitated, thoughts racing-

_but it has to be an even number, can't stop on an odd, can't stop-_

There is a meeting that night at the cafe.

Enjolras does not attend.

Enjolras is asleep.

_So much for control._

\---

The ambulance doesn't come quick enough for Grantaire.

Nothing is happening fast enough, actually. Since the moment Enjolras had collapsed in his arms he'd been frantic, right on the edge. Courfeyrac has stopped the party; people are leaving, but not quickly enough. Combeferre is on the phone speaking in low, urgent tones and that had better fucking be a professional – Joly maybe, anyone – or he's going to yell.

He had yelled, called for help, because he knew and he knows that he's no good even though he _wants_ to help. His inner monologue streams endlessly, anxious and not really all that helpful, but he mumbles it out loud to himself for lack of anything better to do.

“- fine, he'll be fine, just stop worrying about it there's nothing else you can do and he's breathing at least I mean-”

People stopped giving him looks for talking to himself ages ago, and he's supremely grateful for it now.

Finally, the sirens sound and he looks in relief down the darkened street. Enjolras lies dead weight in his lap, limp and so frighteningly light. He might be blown away by a passing breeze. He's so _cold_ and it's chilly, and that's justification enough for Grantaire to prop him up and hug him close, a hand pressed to his chest over his heart just to be sure it's still beating. It is.

It flutters like a caged bird, restless as it's owner. He bites his lip and tries not to cry.

Combeferre returns from his call looking as stressed as Grantaire feels, kneeling down beside him. “It's okay,” he murmurs, and it takes him a moment to realize he's being addressed. He nods numbly, the liquor on his breath tasting stale and nauseating now.

Of all the nights to be drinking...

It tastes, he realizes, like regret. It's bitter and it hurts to swallow, and he hates himself, because if only he'd stepped up sooner he would have been able to prevent this.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Combeferre's hand is on his knee, squeezing. “Joly said he'll take him in. His shift doesn't end until two.” Grantaire nods again, even though it's meaningless and hardly important, and Joly shouldn't be talking on his cell when he's at work should he? He has no idea what time it is and he doesn't care, so long as Enjolras is alive.

The sirens grow closer. Red lights flash. It is deafening. One girl (is that the girl Enjolras had been talking to?) starts crying.

He rides in the ambulance in Combeferre's place at Enjolras' side, and feels entirely too awkward about it.

But then, what else is there to do?

\---

When he wakes, there is silence.

It's not the silence he's grown accustomed to nor is it pleasant in the slightest. Something is stuck in the crook of his elbow. The thick, woozy feeling in his skull intensifies as he attempts to sit up and he stops trying, although he opens his eyes stubbornly. The light pierces him and his body screams, a sound inside of him that he's grown intimately familiar with.

Machines beep softly, humming almost too low for him to hear. He supposes one of them must be hooked to the IV needle that's been taped down to his skin, pulling and making him grimace. There is a tickle as he shifts, trying to look around, and he looks down to see a mop of unruly dark hair brushing at his arm.

This is a hospital room and that is Grantaire. Those two things are the only things he can be sure of.

How he got here, he has no idea. More importantly, what he _should_ be doing is his paper due-

Oh, God. What day is it?

The panic swallows him whole in the space of a second and the beeping is shrill in his ears, a distant echo of his own heart. What day is it, what month, what year, oh God, what hour, how much time has he lost? What is he supposed to be doing? His own harsh gasps don't register in his ears as he scrambles to find the schedule in his mind, coming up blank.

It is impossible to ignore a problem when you cannot escape it, and Enjolras has hit a wall.

What _has_ he done to himself?

\---

Grantaire starts, sitting up and blinking hard and fast as he catches himself up with this turn of events. Enjolras is awake, apparently, and not taking it well.

(He hadn't really thought he would.)

(He hadn't thought much of anything, actually.)

His hand, so large and calloused in comparison, flies out to grip the golden boy's and Enjolras stops so abruptly he wants to drop it. But he holds on, keeps him in a vice grip, and watches the color bloom in the other man's face for the first time in ages.

“Enjolras-” he begins, nervously. Just like the bitten off beginning of a sentence he never even attempted, like a thousand impassioned speeches he'd given in his head and out loud in his empty apartment with only his easel and a bottle and the memory of Enjolras' face splashed onto a canvas for company. “How- do you feel?”

_You bastard, you tried to leave me._

Enjolras isn't hyperventilating now but he can't seem to speak properly either – which in itself is concerning. He opens his mouth and shuts it, looks around, and looks down at his hand that looks so small and so pale in Grantaire's.

It's the contrast, probably, that has the color draining from his face like that.

“Grantaire,” he says, and his voice is strangled, and Grantaire wants to cry hearing his name from those lips, said like _that._

“Grantaire, let me go. What is today?”

He's shuttered again, the transformation so sudden that he has to reassure himself that Enjolras was, indeed, in this room for a reason. The facade is wearing thin. He could pretend all he wanted, before, but now is the time to talk about it at last.

The ordeal, he reminds himself, is over. His, anyways. Enjolras' has only begun.

But he's strong. He can do it. Grantaire believes in him.

Enjolras is an intelligent man. He knows up from down and right from wrong (and he'll argue about it for hours, too, which is part of why Grantaire is so hopelessly in love with him really) and these are the facts.

“Enjolras,” he begins, still clutching at his hand. Amazingly, the blonde slowly looks down to it, clutching it back. His eyes are painfully uncertain.

“Enjolras, we need to talk.”


End file.
